Addiction
by akisura12
Summary: Sherlock thought going cold turkey would be easier the second time. It wasn't. Post-Reichenbach, not slash. Oneshot. Based on a prompt for a sick Sherlock going through withdrawl.


Title: Addiction

Author: Akisura12

Summary: Sherlock thought going cold turkey would be easier the second time. It wasn't.

Disclaimer: Sherlock, the television series in which I am writing from, is in no way mine or affiliated with me. Sherlock is property of the BBC, and Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no money by writing the piece, it is solely for enjoyment.

Warnings: Rated T for drug references, withdrawal, swears. Spoilers for The Fall, though… It has been out for around a century. So, you know, I think we're good. Post-Reichenbach.

Note: Uncreative title is uncreative. Based on a prompt given by charliebrown1234. I tried my best to be accurate with the research. Takes place a few months after Sherlock's return. It's suppose to be in canon-verse. Can be read as pre-slash or friendship. Please enjoy!

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><p>Sherlock knew that John wouldn't like his new habit. But it had been so excruciating, those three years, what else could he have done? It had been nearly impossible to avoid and so, obviously, he hadn't.<p>

Cocaine used to be his drug of choice. A seven percent solution was his remedy for boredom. But this time, it wasn't a stimulant. For the first time in Sherlock's life, he'd wanted it to stop, rather than speed up.

And so, heroin.

Sherlock had never understood why people had wanted to use such a hateful drug before. Stopping one's mind? How _dull_. But being without John, he understood. Heroin was for the people who didn't hope anymore. That's what one of his dealers said, when he was posing as a monk in Tibet.

At first Sherlock was sure he'd be able to stop. Seeing John would make everything alright again, wouldn't it? But it didn't. Not right away, anyway. And even after it was, he still longed the powered white substance, the high of being downed, the automatic, relaxed feeling…

He didn't want to admit it: _addiction_. The word popped out in his mind relentlessly. He couldn't deny it; Greg was going to kill him.

He knew it couldn't hide it from John forever, he'd find out for sure. John wasn't stupid, and he was a doctor. But Sherlock was also _ very_ not-stupid. And he was a good actor.

He made a point of only using when he knew John would be out for a few hours. And after all, wasn't it he who said sometimes he didn't speak for days on end? John would just think it was one of his black moods.

But he found out. Quite quickly, really. The good Doctor found him playing the slowest violin tune Sherlock had ever produced, and - well,it didn't take much to realize what wasn't right.

Sherlock had expected John to yell, or throw things, or do something overemotional. He anticipated fighting and the announcement that John would be sleeping-at-whatever girl John was dating at the moment's house. But what he did was so much worse.

He simply looked at Sherlock with the most disappointed eyes Sherlock had ever imaged possible to settle upon John Watson's face.

He led Sherlock to his room, kindly, smoothly, steadfastly. When Sherlock awakened, John was sitting in a chair next to his bed, frowning down at a book he was reading. Creases and worry lines prominent, so much more than they should have been in Sherlock's mind. He couldn't stand the thought that he'd caused them. _Him_. Everyone was right; he was the boy who nobody would ever love, said his classmates, his teachers, his family. Nobody at all.

Not that he loved John, not in the way they'd meant anyway, but, well. They were mates. Or, the closest thing Sherlock would ever get to a mate, he supposed. Because nobody loves the sociopath, especially if they expect something in return for their efforts, however hard they much effort they put into caring.

"John," he mumbled."

"I've gotten rid of it. All of it. There's no more," John said simply, not looking up from the book. "Mycroft'll be making sure of that. Danger nights and all."

Sherlock had a rare moment of social graces, and did not comment on Mycroft's intervention. He knew Mycroft was at least in part responsible for keeping John from accidentally-on-purpose killing himself during those three long years, and so he at least owed him that. It wouln't go over well to insult Mycroft right now.

"It's not a danger night," he admitted. He hadn't originally approved of the term John and his brother had crafted for him, so long ago. _Danger nights_. As if he were some sort of wild beast who needed taming. But now… it had applied then so much more than it had applied now. Sherlock couldn't even pretend not to know what John was talking about now. It was time for confessions. "That's not why."

"I know," John said, his voice quiet. Sherlock wanted to cry.

And he did. A tear ran down his cheek, slowly, just like the heroin that was still passing through his system was inching along, twisting his mind and his body and everybody around him.

John looked up. "I'll help you," he said, his voice slightly kinder than before, "But you have to try. Will you do that?"

Sherlock didn't hesitate in saying, "Yes."

John smiled, just a small one, the corners of his lips pnly curling upwards slightly, but it was enough for now. He patted Sherlock's arm, the one nearer to the edge of the bed John's seat was next to. "Alright."

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><p>Sherlock had hoped it would be better this time. He'd done this before, had never wanted to do it again. But it would be easier the second time, right?<p>

It wasn't. Perhaps it was even worse, or maybe it just felt worse. The first time he'd done it with Lestrade, and it had been awful and all sorts of unpleasant and embarrassing, and he'd felt so _needy_. He'd promised himself and Lestrade he would never tamper with the needles again.

He was lucky in the fact that he didn't have post acute withdrawal syndrome, because that wouldn't been horrible. A week was nearly crushing as it was.

The first two day, Sherlock was alright. He'd been using about three or four times a week, it hadn't been daily. And so the first forty-eight hours were unhindered. He had no manic cravings, or the need to rip his own eyes out or any bollocks like that.

Day three and four were harder. He started to feel anxious, and snapped at John for not putting enough sugar in his tea. He snapped at Mrs. Hudson for coming up twice in an hour to clean. He snapped at the skull on the mantelpiece for looking at him wrongly. He suspected he might be going a bit mad.

Sherlock started to fill ill on day five. His back hurt when he moved quickly, and so he laid on the couch most of the day, insulting at the characters and the actors that were in the soap he was watching on the telly. He found himself taking frequent trips to the bathroom and his stomach hurt constantly. John told him he had a fever. He told John to piss off.

It went downhill from there. He vomited for the first time on day six. John set him a bucket next to his increasing common position on the couch. John gave him some Pepto-Bismol, which worked for a little bit. His fever got higher; John took it and said it was 37.9. His nose ran and his eyes watered and his stomach hurt and it just felt like having the worst version of the common cold anyone ever had. But Sherlock suspected it wouldn't last much longer than this; after all, this had only lasted about two weeks when he was with Lestrade, and he'd been taking cocaine twice a day in much higher amounts back then.

It got worse. John told him it was alright, it was just his body trying to achieve correct homeostasis. He rubbed Sherlock's back while he vomited and gave him medicine for everything that hurt and turned the lights down so Sherlock didn't have to see so much.

_God his head hurt._

He nearly broke on the tenth day.

"John, give it to me, I need it!" He shouted, barely caring how independent he knew he was on the heroin.

"No," John said calmly, and continued to type on his computer.

"Is that your blog? Put it away! Don't you dare write about this!"

"Sherlock, calm down," John said firmly. "You'll be fine, the detox is almost over."

"_It is not fine!_" Sherlock roared. He jumped off the couch, ignoring his achy back and legs and head and everything else and dashing over to John, who was sitting on his chair. Oh, perfect perfect John, he's not the one who had to play bounty hunter was he? God, how ungrateful, how _dare_ he be angry when Sherlock came home when it had been for him, all of it!

He picked up John's computer to the ground and threw it. He hoped it had broken.

"Hey!" John cried. "Sherlock!"

"John, I could kill you right now," Sherlock hissed, "I could, and I'm amazing and clever and nobody would ever find out." He sounded completely off his rocker.

John sighed, and held Sherlock's shoulders with his own hands. Sherlock weakly tried to shake him off, but the high of the craving was already passing, he was already getting tired… "Sherlock," John said carefully. "Sit down, right here, on the carpet." He effectively pushed Sherlock down into a heap on the carpet. "I am right here. You are fine. You can beat this, we both can, we both know that."

"I can't, I can't, God, John," Sherlock said, tears forming at the corners of his eyes (which for him was effectively sobbing). "I can't, God, John, please, just one more fix, I promise I'll stop after that please just one more, John, one more!" His manic eyes darted around madly, "Please John, please! I'm asking you nicely, _please!_"

"Saying please will not get you anything," John said levelly. "You just have to remember, Sherlock, cold turkey. Everything will be fine."

"It's not fine!" Sherlock roared.

"No," John said softly. "No, it's not. But it will be, I promise, you'll see." He pressed his lips softly to Sherlock's clammy forehead, kissed him lightly. Tenderly. It was so intimate, and yet not at all romantic, and Sherlock wanted to melt into John Watson for ever and never emerge from whatever he was. Whatever this ordinary, boring, completely exhilarating man was.

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><p>Lestrade found out about Sherlock's relapse and overcoming that relapse after it had happened. He punched Sherlock in the face, hard.<p>

"I lost my fucking job for you, Sherlock," he'd yelled. "Don't you dare kill yourself doing something stupid like drugs!"

"I won't," Sherlock sighed.

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><p>"Thank you, John," Sherlock said. It had been three weeks since the symptoms had lessened. He still went a bit manic at times, and wanted a fix so badly he smashed his head against the wall and John needed to give him a few stitches. But it was getting better.<p>

John didn't ask _what for_, or _why now_. He simply said, "You're welcome," which really, meant so many other things, not just two words. It was a ballad, and poem, a song. It meant everything, or it could have meant nothing. But Sherlock took it as the world.

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><p>Note: I hope you liked it; I'd love feedback! This is un-beta'd and un-britpicked, so constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.<p> 


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